


Rituals

by doxian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkward Boners, Blood, Blood Drinking, Desperation, Gift Exchange, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rainbow Drinkers, Sheathplay, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave falling asleep on you typically would not pose any sort of problem beyond a few fleshtingles along your leg, but right now you have a rather major problem located squarely under your skirt - the tip of your bulge has been peeking out from your sheath, like a new shoot on a vine, for the last ten minutes at least, curling and uncurling insistently between your legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sfingella (jadebloods)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Choke on Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/893962) by [jadebloods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods). 



> Is it cheating to base a giftfic off of something written by the giftee?
> 
> Anyway, the prompt was for Kanaya solo. The suggestions I went with were "blood-drinking turns her on" and "embarrassed tentaboner at an inopportune time".
> 
> Background pairings are Dave♦Kanaya and Kanaya♥Rose.
> 
> Also includes Kanaya having body dysphoria about having become undead.

You're making a valiant attempt at extricating yourself from underneath Dave's prone form without waking him up. 

There's always significant disparity between your energy levels after a feeding. While you're practically thrumming with fresh energy, Dave is sleepy and useless. You often wonder what it's like to be fed _from_ , considering your only knowledge of it originates from the embarrassingly flowery novels you used to read, and you'd never had the opportunity to experience it yourself. Your then-favourite writers loved focusing on the terror - and occasionally swooning passion - of the rainbow drinkers' victims, but in the flesh it looks almost relaxing. Perhaps you should ask Dave about it sometime. 

It's become a bit of a ritual for you to languish with him after you've drunk your fill. He has difficulty doing anything for himself until he's replenished his own energy, so it's really the least you can do to give him water and feed him those chewy-crumbly nutrition oblongs that he complains weakly about without fail. (Baked goods have turned out to be one of the more challenging creations to alchemize. Those treeskin-like snacks are the closest the humans have been able to get.) 

It's not quite apple juice and cookies, but you make do. 

But now he has finished eating (and mumbling in between bites), and him leaning against you has transitioned very naturally into him falling asleep half on top of you. His inert body is oppressively warm - there's a light sheen of sweat along where his arm rests against yours and where your leg is squished against the couch. Maybe this room is particularly poorly ventilated (if one can even ensure the adequate aeration of one's living quarters in _space_ ), or maybe humans as a species are just this warm, but whatever the cause, it's oddly comforting. A little like the rays of your sun, just in a slightly more uncomfortable form.

Dave falling asleep on you typically would not pose any sort of problem beyond a few fleshtingles along your leg, but right now you have a rather major problem located squarely under your skirt - the tip of your bulge has been peeking out from your sheath, like a new shoot on a vine, for the last ten minutes at least, curling and uncurling insistently between your legs. Holding it in completely had proved to be a lost cause, so now the most you can do is to keep the rest of it from surging out by squeezing the muscles surrounding it, hard. Doing this crossed the line from "okay" to "ouch" near instantaneously, but the thought of popping a full wriggly right after a feeding with your moirail-and-primary-energy-source in your lap is so mortifying that you'd gladly endure this indefinitely instead. 

(You aren't attracted to Dave at all, not sexually, but this isn't about that, you think. You just feel so _good_ when you're full, so amazingly good, so bright with power.)

Slow and torturous expiration via blue bulge isn't exactly on your agenda for the day, however, (or _ever_ to be quite honest) so you nudge Dave a little more insistently. He grumbles at being jostled but sprawls back out in his original position as soon as you get up. He's sleeping with his mouth open and his cape is hanging over one arm of the couch. Really, if he wasn't unconscious you'd question whether he was trying to look this pitiful on purpose, but on second thought you doubt he has accumulated enough knowledge about troll relationships for that. Unless his story sessions with Karkat have been more fruitful than he's let on. You readjust his crooked shades, take the water bottle from his slack hands and place it on the table, and quickly vacate the premises. 

You ache. You spend a few minutes searching for Rose but can't find her anywhere. It's not long until you give up looking - doing it with Rose always feels amazing right after you've fed, but you'll have to go with ease over quality right now, so you book it to your respiteblock and hurriedly shut the door behind you.

Your breath sounds louder to you here. It's a little irritating. You sink down into your lumpy fuschia armchair, squeeze your legs tight together and try your best to focus on the task at hand over the awkward and impotent mechanisms of your now-unnecessary internal organs. Your bulge is _this close_ to escaping. Clamping down on it is hardly necessary now, but the sensation of it attempting to squirm, unbearably swollen and restricted in your sheath, straddles the line between painful and pleasant, and you want to sustain that for a little longer. The ache is a strange combination of needing to fill a bucket, needing to use the load gaper, and feeling like someone punched you straight in the slurry manufacturing bladder some hours ago. It isn't something you would ever have predicted yourself enjoying, but then past you also didn't foresee present you having your redrom quadrants filled by humans, or careening through paradox space on a giant piece of rock that two overpowered psychics threw half a sweep ago like a massive... what did Dave call it? Touchdown? Anyway, the point is that past you was clearly very uninformed about present you, much like you would typically expect of a past self before all these time-traversing messaging shenanigans. 

So you hike your skirt up and press the heel of your hand against your already-damp underwear, gently, rubbing the delicate, trapped tip, shuddering at the warmth that spreads through you in response. 

The taste of Dave's blood lingers on your tongue. Like Rose, his blood tastes sweet - almost cloying - when compared to troll's blood. Unlike Rose, his has a piquant undertone that makes it particularly delicious. (Is taste part of the reason why - aside from it being more of a pale thing than a flushed thing - that you drink from him the most often? Or is the reverse true - that his blood tastes better to you because you always have him when you're hungry, so that drinking from him feels like _relief_ , like rainfall after a drought?)

As much as you want to, you don't think you can keep this up for much longer. You're a little surprised you've even managed to for this long. As soon as you relax, your bulge ripples into your underwear before you can even pull it down, rushing up against the seam of one leg and almost spilling out. The feeling of giving in to what your body wants is so perfect that that in itself is almost as unbearable as the denial. You exhale sharply and take hold of your bulge, trying to detangle it from the garment as it writhes about in a pathetically needy manner, only for it to twist into your bunched-up skirt instead, staining it with broad streaks of green. 

You'll bemoan ruined underthings later. For now, you shimmy them down enough so that you can grab the tip of your bulge and hold it close to your belly, preventing it from doing anything aside from twitching pointlessly. Merely running one fingertip lightly along the exposed, ridged underside is intense enough that it makes you shiver - another perk courtesy of keeping it sheathed for so long. 

You're still thinking about drinking from Dave. About the specific way he tenses at the initial bite before relaxing in your arms, and continuing to relax as you drink, until his limbs are all limp and noodly. (You can't decide if doing this is more or less awkward than how you were sitting with him in your lap earlier.) This is going to be over embarrassingly quickly. Everything about this entire ordeal has been terribly embarrassing, but you can't bring yourself to care much about that now, not when you're moving your hand over the stalk of your bulge in quick caresses and sinking deeper into your armchair, parting your legs slightly to give yourself better access to your nook. You let go of the tip of your bulge in favour of pushing two fingers into yourself, already warm and sticky with genetic material, and start thinking about Rose instead, about idly lapping at blood trickling down her throat to her chest for the thrill of it and not for sustenance, and - you need a pail. 

You abandon your nook and desperately twisting bulge for as long as it takes you to stand, shuck your underwear down and retrieve your pail from the bottom drawer of your nightstand. Falling to your knees, you wedge it between your thighs and push your skirt up again, returning your hand to your nook and allowing your bulge to coil around the other, squeezing it firmly and - You're so close. Your inner thighs are slicked with green and you're biting your lip hard and _you're so close_. 

You come whilst kneeling on your floor, curling your fingers in your nook and thinking of how soft human skin is, how easily it is to pierce open. 

The sound of your breathing obnoxiously recaptures your attention as you slowly come back to yourself. If you thought it was uncomfortably loud before, it's even more so now. You might not need air, but panting after physical exertion is a reaction your undead body has yet to unlearn.

You look down at your pail. It's full of genetic material, none of which has gotten onto the floor. Thank the Mother Grub that your carpet was spared. Your clothes, on the other hand, are quite ruined. The front of your skirt is almost more green than red, now, and there's a stripe of material across the bottom of your shirt as well. Sighing, you take everything off and replace it with a bathrobe. 

As you head to the ablution block next door, you notice that the buzz of energy within you has been tempered from frenetic to steady. Maybe Porrim was right about the benefits of pailing - and self-pailing - after feeding, you think. You have a feeling that, like the languishing and nutrition oblongs, this is quickly en-route to becoming another ritual, too.


End file.
